


Cavity

by orphan_account



Series: Coyote [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: I'm Sorry, Low Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, enemies to enemies with benefits, there's really no excuse for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Micah's presence was a hole in Arthur's chest, one that grew bigger and deeper over time.
Relationships: Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan, heavily implied John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Coyote [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1736950
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	Cavity

**Author's Note:**

> Look, okay, let me just go ahead and apologize right now. I hate Micah with the force of a thousand suns, he's Not a Good Dude. But, I had to get this out of my system and therefore I have, so...there. Have some garbage. I really wrote over 2k of Micah/Arthur. I'm just as disappointed as you are. 
> 
> Have I mentioned I'm sorry?

In the snow burial ground that is the abandoned mining town of Colter, Arthur finds Micah in one of the cabins, alone. Doesn’t surprise Arthur in the slightest, nobody in the gang has really spent their time around the man willingly since he joined a few months back. Everyone except Dutch avoids him like the plague. A sniveling little rabid rodent that you’d rather step over sooner than acknowledge.

Micah’s sitting by the fireplace, his back to Arthur, his hands preoccupied with whittling or reading or whatever. His head is hung low, his hat is sat on one of the tables near him. An ironic shade of white, just like the snow outside.

Arthur’s looking for Dutch, three good possible assumptions to where he might be. Holed up with either Hosea, Molly, or Micah.

Arthur walks in the cabin, closing the door behind him against the harsh winter storm. Takes a look around to make sure that Micah and only Micah is inhabiting the cabin, and turns towards the door. Hopeful that he can make it out without sparing a regrettable conversation.

Micah looks up, over his shoulder when Arthur enters the cabin, however, registers him with beady, suspicious eyes. Doesn’t say a word until he sees Arthur make for an exit.

“Missin’ somebody, cowpoke?”

“Dutch,” Arthur says. Short. Hand inches away from the thick wooden frame of the door. “You seen ‘im?”

Micah takes his eyes off Arthur, fixing his attention back in front of him. Waits a full ten seconds before answering him. Arthur realizes he’s been standing there like a fool, actually waiting on a response, when he makes for the door once more.

“Nope, haven’t seen him,” Micah says. Sighs.

Arthur still hasn’t left yet.

“Come and join me by the fire, Morgan,” Micah says without looking at him. Arthur’s hand falls away from the door like he’s actually considering it. “You look tired.”

Arthur doesn’t move to take Micah up on the suggestion. Instead, he just stands there, as if he has some reason to be there at all. “Who ain’t? We’ve been running for days thanks to that business back in Blackwater.”

Arthur says it like it’s his fault, and maybe he’d rather believe that than believe that it was Dutch’s. Another reckless and unplanned action carried out like killing that innocent woman.

Arthur sees Micah’s shoulders tense up at this. Only for a second. As if the thought of entertaining Arthur’s accusatory remark by starting up an argument enters his mind, then leaves. Quick as it came.

His shoulders relax, yet his tone is far from it. “Yeah, well, you weren’t there.”

Arthur knows this. It’s yet another guilt he’s carried for the past few weeks. “Well, I should’ve been,” Arthur says, moreso to himself than Micah, but the short, breathy chuckle Micah gives is enough to let Arthur know his words have been heard.

The bastard thought it was funny, too. Unbeknownst to Arthur, for whatever reason. Arthur opens his mouth to ask him just what he thinks is so goddamn funny, but Micah beats him to it.

“Y’know, you remind me a lot of myself, Morgan,” His words are laced with amusement. Words that make Arthur want to knock Micah’s teeth out.

Instead, Arthur says, “I ain’t nothing like you.” His boots still remain planted on the wooden planks below him. He should’ve already been gone by now.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Micah glances back over his shoulder at Arthur and then back down at his hands, as if thinking the same thing. As if he’s making sure Arthur hasn’t got the idea to end this conversation altogether by making his leave. It would be the wise thing to do, yet Arthur’s never regarded himself for making too many wise decisions. “we’ve both killed people, we’re both wanted men-”

Arthur interrupts him. “That’s different,”

“How so?” Micah asks, not looking for an answer because Arthur doesn’t have one. He stands, abruptly, turns around to face Arthur head-on. “Get your head outta the clouds, cowpoke. I’d say we’re two sides of the same sinful coin. Even Dutch says so, says we got the same fire and vigor that could intimidate even the toughest men.”

Micah’s always tried adding some dramatics to the way he talks. Like he’s saying anything worth hearing at all. A page taken out of Dutch’s book, Arthur guesses, only maybe everything that Dutch says isn’t complete horse shit.

“Well then,” Arthur finds his voice. Lets his eyes dart down to the object in Micah’s hand. A chunk of wood he’s whittling into a grizzly standing on its hind legs. “Dutch has officially lost his goddamn mind if he’s comparing me to the likes of you,”

“We all want to be different,” Micah takes a step closer, continues as if he didn’t hear him. “Doesn’t mean we are. Perhaps I’m the version of you that you so like to keep running from, only I’ve accepted my fate. Maybe you’d be more at peace if you accepted yours.”

His words are quiet, but harsh enough to strike Arthur in the chest like a bullet. He’s never considered himself to be a good man, but he’s always thought that maybe being aware of the fact separated him from the rest. Separated him from people like the O’Driscolls, like the Pinkertons, like Micah. But, the fact that he’s aware of this and not willing to change is something else entirely. Maybe Arthur was blind to believe his life could be any different.

Arthur doesn’t reply to this, only stares into Micah’s face with as much distaste as he can muster. He wants to disagree, but he can’t. Micah’s got him. He’s really fucking got him.

“I like the beard, Morgan. It suits you. Only I wouldn’t let it grow too long, though.” Micah uses Arthur’s silence to fill the room with his voice once again. Arthur’s still glaring at him when Micah looks right into his fucking eyes and says, “Face like yours is too pretty to keep covered.”

Arthur’s mouth goes dry, like he’s about to get sick. He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and pulls open the door and disappears out into the storm like he should’ve done minutes ago.

\- - -

Micah volunteers to go looking for John out in the storm even after Abigail asked Arthur directly and Hosea appointed Javier to accompany him when Arthur lets Dutch know where they’re heading. Micah’s attempt at some petty competition gets turned down, of course, Dutch says two men would be enough to carry out this task just fine.

Always a fucking game with Micah. Like he’s competing for Dutch’s approval, dragging Arthur into a rivalry he wasn’t looking to get wrapped up in. Maybe it does bother Arthur that Dutch has listened to every word the bastard has whispered into his ear since he joined the gang. Maybe it doesn’t.

He rides out with Javier, feeling Micah’s stare burn into his back. So heated that maybe it’s enough to make Arthur feel too warm for his winter coat.

\- - -

They find John and deliver him in one piece. Arthur’s about as relieved as Abigail although he’s less willing to show it. He was just about sure that John had taken the nerve to run off again, and with time, Arthur learned to cover his hurt with aggression. John has always taken up too large a place in Arthur’s heart. Arthur convinced himself he’d just about rather let John be stranded out in the middle of the snowstorm as to deal with that kind of pain again.

Arthur takes up space in the chair beside where John lay, staring at the bloodied bandages, staring at rise and fall of John’s chest as he sleeps. Staring at the blatant fear deep within his chest that maybe John won’t make it out of this as lucky as he has before. He sits there, looming over John, like a protective mother, until Abigail ushers him away to take his place.

Arthur’s gaze lingers over the two of them before he opens the door to let himself out. Abigail fretting over John with harsh words but a caring touch, and it’s where John belongs. With Abigail. Their tempers and stubbornness so evenly matched it’s almost like fate. Arthur’s been so selfish with John the past few years, taking up his time, taking up space in his bed. Luring John in with proclamations of love that he didn’t want to admit to the morning after.

His mind circles back to Micah, and his words. About how Arthur could’ve been the better man but didn’t want to be. And when Arthur opens the door and steps outside into the blinding white, Micah’s standing right by the stairs, as if the simple thought of him was enough to be summoned.

“How is he?” Micah asks without caring. He’s got his pistol in his hand, cleaning it. Out in the middle of the freezing snow. Busying himself so maybe Arthur was dumb enough to believe he wasn’t waiting on him.

“Go see for yourself,” Arthur says. He shouldn’t even spare the man a fleeting glance, and yet here he is. Dead stopped out in the middle of the snow, body completely turned around to face Micah. “That is if you really care.”

“Maybe not as much as you, cowpoke,” the corner of Micah’s mouth is twisted up into a smirk. Like he knows something. Arthur wants to tell him he doesn’t know the half of it.

Arthur doesn’t say anything, and that’s twice within the same week that the bastard has left him speechless. He hates himself. He hates Micah.

“Don’t know why you busy yourself so much him, if I’m honest,” Micah feeds off of Arthur’s silence just as before. Lets his relaxed gaze fall upon Arthur, yet Arthur can feel the same intensity in the stare that he felt earlier. “The girl’s already taken up a place you can’t possibly compete with.”

Arthur glances around the camp. Looking for maybe an excuse to leave this conversation or maybe any prying ears. He doesn’t want this conversation to be heard any more than he wants to take part in it.

Arthur lets his eyes settle back on Micah, and Micah’s smiling again. Knowing. It settles under Arthur’s skin, crawling like vermin.

“What the hell are you talking about, you son of a bitch-” Arthur’s voice has dropped down to a hiss.

Micah still talks at normal volume. There’s nobody around to listen except Arthur anyways. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart?” Arthur repeats the word back to Micah. Spits the word out like a poison he’s accidentally consumed.

Maybe the same analogy could be used for Micah, himself. A poison Arthur’s let into his system without meaning to do so.

Micah takes a step forward, and he’s close enough that Arthur can feel his breath on his face. “I ain’t here to argue, Morgan, I’m only here to make an offer.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?” Arthur breaths out, trying his best to sound like any offer Micah had for him was a complete waste. Yet, the closeness has Arthur hiding an involuntary shiver that has nothing to do with the cold air around them.

The smirk on Micah’s face never falters, as if Arthur’s simple indulgence is beyond satisfying and amusing. “When you get to looking for other options, come find me,” the words are cold against Arthur’s face, yet stir a warmth deep in the pit of Arthur’s stomach.

Micah backs off, disappearing in the other direction as quick as he came. He leaves Arthur breathless and bothered like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him. Standing out in the snow, waiting to collect his thoughts and determine if the conversation was even real or not. By the time Arthur pries his eyes away from the space Micah had previously inhabited and looks up to follow the direction he left, Micah’s already vanished into one of the other cabins.

Arthur pulls himself together and his feet carry him off towards his own cabin. And he’s hard. The simple realization is enough to follow him inside with another new budding guilt.

\- - -

Arthur finds him a few weeks later, after the gang has packed up and moved on to Horseshoe Overlook, in a hotel room in Strawberry. The Trackers Hotel. How ironic.

Arthur kisses Micah like he wants to break his teeth out. Micah smashes his lips against Arthur’s, responding with a matched intensity that’s enough to leave both of their mouths swollen and bruised.

Micah’s crowding Arthur against the wall, hands gripping at Arthur’s shirt, fisted in the material. Arthur’s jacket is already discarded and forgotten on the floor. Arthur’s fingers are digging into Micah’s shoulders, nails stabbing into the skin underneath his shirt hard enough to draw blood.

It’s nothing short of a battle, Micah, trying to push Arthur as far as he can against the wall as if they might break down the thin walls with the sheer force. And Arthur trying to pull Micah as close as possible, as if trying to take him down with him.

Micah is the first to pull away, breathless. Lips red and swollen. “Oh, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this, cowpoke.” His words come out threatening, and maybe in a different context could possess a whole other meaning.

Arthur lets out a shaky, winded breath. “What took you so long?”

\- - -

Sex with Micah is like the harshest of storms. A war carried out just between the two of them.

Arthur’s on his back, Micah looming over him as close and suffocating as before. They’d fallen backward on the bed in the wrong direction, upside down so Arthur’s head hits against the edge of the metal footboard with each of Micah’s thrusts.

Arthur calls him a bastard, and Micah laughs. Arthur can practically feel the too-sharp teeth against his skin.

“Takes one to know one, don’t it, cowpoke?” Micah says, and the words are daunting yet there’s no venom in his tone. Arthur opens his eyes and he can’t see anything. The hotel room is pitch black darkness, maybe it’s better that way. Arthur imagines the look on Micah’s face.

Arthur doesn’t say anything, falls back into the comfortable darkness in his own head.

“What’re you thinking about, huh? Marston?” Micah’s voice is like cold water, enough to jerk Arthur back into the moment.

“Shut your mouth,” Arthur says through gritted teeth. Forceful. Annoyed.

“I’ve seen the way you two carry on back at camp, y’know,” Micah says. He moves his hips in short, quick bursts like he’s accentuating each word. Maybe he's wondering if Arthur wishes it was John here with him instead of Micah. “Hell, I’ve heard it, too.”

Arthur’s hands are fisted in the sheets on either side of him. Micah’s got one hand digging into the sheets beside Arthur’s shoulder, the other grasping onto the metal of the footboard that keeps bumping against the top of Arthur’s skull. “I said, shut your mouth, you son of a bitch,”

“Or what? You gonna make me?” The words ghost across Arthur’s skin, enough to give Arthur an idea where Micah’s mouth is, and he decides to do just that.

Arthur turns his head to kiss Micah, as roughly as before. It’s enough to dull the feeling of guilt that seeps its way back into his system, pulsating like a rotten tooth.

Arthur hates himself. He hates Micah. He hates the fact that, looming overhead in his mind like pollution, maybe he wanted this just as much as Micah did from the beginning.

Some days later, Micah gets himself arrested, and Arthur returns to Strawberry, dumb enough to break him out.


End file.
